Weapon
by xXFissshBonesssXx
Summary: A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public sees him that way, but because that is what he is. Rated for gore in later chapters. May be HP/DM in later chapters, but certainly not in the way that you're used to.
1. Chapter 1

**Story Title: **Weapon

**Story Synopsis: **A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public sees him that way, but because that is what he is.

**Disclaimers:** I don't own any of the characters that will be in this Fic. Apologies beforehand for any spelling/grammar mishaps.

**Author:** xxfissshbonesssxx

**Chapter 1**

--

**Azkaban, Central North Sea, Great Britain**

**Monday, May 14th, 1996**

**3:59 PM**

Minerva McGonagall had not become the Head of House of Gryffendor for nothing. She was astute, certainly brave, and loyal. Few things could shake Miverva McGonagall.

The Azkaban guard asked her if she would like an escort in the room and she turned him down with a firm politeness, speaking as if she were addressing not a guard to one of the Wizarding World's most secure prison chambers, but to a first-year that had asked her the same question four times over.

The man opened the door all the way, informing her that she would have exactly fifty-nine minutes with the prisoner, no more, and that he would remain just outside the door within hearing range of their conversation, for safety measures. Minerva nodded sharply and entered the chamber alone. Behind her the door was shut securely, and she was certain that the guard had turned to watch her through the one-way glass as she approached a small cell in the center of a dark and dank room. It was a one-man cell, a cage of iron bars fitted in a latticework over an area just large enough to stretch out for sleep in. The concrete floor was bare and cold. There was a small bed on one side of the caged enclosure with a single blue sheet and a pillow, beside it sat a table and a single chair in which the cell's sole occupant sat, twiddling his wrinkled thumbs as he watched her approach.

A pair of blue eyes twinkled at her from the darkness of the cell.

"Hello, Minerva."

"Albus," she replied, her voice losing its cutting edge at the sight of the old man behind iron bars. He sat up, bringing his back off the chair.

"I would offer you a seat, but I'm afraid there's only one," Albus said in his irrepressibly chipper tone, "And alas, I'm afraid they wouldn't allow you in to sit anyhow."

"That's fine, Albus," Minerva cut in, shaking her head, "It really isn't important whether I sit or not." She came closer to the bars and faced the former Headmaster. After a few moments of silent deliberation, she asked how he was.

"Oh, I'm doing quite well. Did you bring any lemon drops by chance? I'm afraid I've been denied my requests for them, something about having used up all my requests for the month..."

"Albus," Minerva cut in again, looking older than she already was, "Albus, _why_?"

The old man's smile faded a bit. "Why? Possibly because I've requested them ten times already..."

"No--forget about the lemon drops, Albus--" The Transfiguration teacher held her tongue and changed her tone, trying not to sound so irritated at the irritating wizard that kept smiling at her from behind those cold, hard bars. She felt a tremor of some heavy emotion wrack her body before she spoke again. "Albus, why... why didn't you _defend_ yourself? You didn't say a word against the accusations--they're not _true_, Albus, I know they aren't! They can't be--so _**why**_? Why did you let things go this far..."

When he replied, the voice that answered her was full of regret and weariness.

"Because, Minerva... it **was** my crime. And I deserve to be punished for it."

"But you're Albus Dumbledore!" she cried, "You're the rightful Headmaster of Hogwarts, the best that's been allowed to teach for years! Everyone knows how great you are, they know of your efforts to keep their lives safe to live! And you're the defeater of the Dark Lord Grindelwald! The leader of the Light! You've dedicated your life to the furthering of the respectable side of life! After all you've done for them, Albus! How _could_ they? And how could you _let them_ think they were _right_ in condemning you? How could they weigh one crime against everything that you are?"

Again, Albus' voice sounded very tired as it worked to respond to the questions.

"One crime is all it takes, Minerva... I am no different."

She was quiet for a moment, and then for some time after that. Dumbledore regarded her through the bars, watching her accept the responses and filter the information into her system.

"But... at least, tell me," she whispered finally, sounding almost as weary as the aged man himself, "At least tell me, Albus... tell me the truth. That day, in your office... that day that all the papers have written and written over and over about... I have to know. What happened?"

This time the smile was completely gone from the man's old face. He looked at her through the bars of the cage and Minerva realized suddenly just how much this had affected the former Headmaster. Gone was the ever-present twinkle in his old blue eyes, gone was the grandfatherly smile. His countenance was worn and his eyes were weary, and everything about his appearance screamed of sleep-depriving guilt. The bed beside Albus was as neat as the day he'd been imprisoned, Minerva realized as she really looked into Albus' eyes. And who knew how much of the food that was presented to him to be consumed was even actually eaten by this person who was once respected by everyone in the entire Wizarding community, the entire Wizarding World! The old man before her, for that was truly what Dumbledore in his confinement had become, let a heavy sigh go before he replied to Minerva's last and most difficult question.

"He came to me, Minerva. Remember that," Dumbledore said, and the Transfiguration Teacher shook inwardly at the emptiness in Dumbledore's voice. There was no overbearing grief, though the man obviously regretted. There were only words that eventually formed the answer Minerva had come to hear for herself.

"He came to me and said in his own voice, _'I am a weapon. Use me.' _And I did."

--

**END CHAPTER 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**Story Title: **Weapon

**Story Synopsis: **A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public seems him that way, but because that is what he is.

**Disclaimers:** I don't own any of the characters that will be in this Fic. Apologies beforehand for any spelling/grammar mishaps.

**Author:** xxfissshbonesssxx

**A/N:** That '_possible_' HP/DM has now become a more concrete '_probable_'. Not really set in stone, but very likely. Thank you for reviewing and reading, and please enjoy the second chapter.

**Chapter 2**

--

"He came to me, Minerva. Remember that. He came to me and said in his own voice, _'I am a weapon. Use me.' _And I did."

"_Albus_!"

"How could I not, Minerva? He came to **me**."

"Albus, that should be irrelevant! For you to put such a task on a _child's shoulders_--"

The aged wizard shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry that you don't understand..."

On the other side of the bars, Minerva shook her head.

"No, Albus," the woman sighed, deflating a bit, "I'm afraid I don't..."

--

_"...It was like a flash of lightning. In the darkest hours, when You-Know-Who had the doors barricaded and the houses surrounded, when all hope had vanished from space of mind, when escape was impossible, when death was inevitable, when the end was in the very next breath you wouldn't be breathing..._

_He came._

_He came and he threw off the darkness in all but an instant. It was so swift that some doubted it at first but the truth is that it was done, and he had done it. _

_He was the light that woke the world. "_

_**--Quote, Anon.**_

_**The National Zephyr**_

--

**Azkaban, Central North Sea, Great Britain**

**Monday, May 14th, 1996**

**4:27 PM**

Walking out of the prison room, Minerva nodded sharply to the guard and let him escort her wordlessly to the front of Azkaban. The walk was long and silent. When they finally reached the main gate, Minerva thanked him briskly for escorting her, causing the man to quirk an eyebrow up in half-surprise, then turned on heel and made for the transportation off the island. She wasn't surprised to see Remus Lupin still waiting for her by the ferry. Her expression softened from its steely countenance at the sight of him smiling to greet her.

"Remus, you hardly had to wait for..."

"It was no trouble, Minerva, I assure you," the former DADA Teacher said, waving it off and extending a hand to her. "I take it you heard what you came to hear, then?"

The woman only followed Remus wordlessly onto the ferry, her hand in his palm, never looking back.

"It was so... _irresponsible_ of him, Remus," she breathed ten minutes later, when the island was a good distance behind them, shrouded in fog, "To take the boy's words so lightly when he was obviously..." She let the sentence hang, unable to find fitting words.

"...not himself?" Remus supplied gently, his eyes on the water.

The silence that settled between them after that was only slightly uncomfortable.

Remus found himself staring out over the edge of the ferry at the water as they headed for land. He'd not visited Albus since he'd read the papers. He'd wanted to, of course. He didn't believe that the accusations were true, that Albus Dumbledore, great strategist of the Light, could have made such an oversight. He didn't want to believe it. He hadn't believed it.

But that was before he'd seen the Pensive Page.

Albus had willingly submitted the memory to a Ministry Pensive, and ever since the Victory, the Daily Prophet always had a special page devoted to Harry, listing his great achievements and personal sacrifices made in the name of the Light and such, and then a page to condemn Albus over and over again. They never failed to blame Albus for the boy's current condition, never failed to point out that his greatest and unforgivable crime had forever ruined the Boy-Who-Lived, who was now doubly their Savior. Beside it was a single page devoted to show the memory, charmed to show the pensive-vision of Albus' greatest and only crime over and over again, in a continuous loop.

He shut his eyes, but the memory swelled up all the same.

--

**Pensive-Vision:**

**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland, Great Britain**

**Friday, April 26th, 1996**

**11:38 PM**

They were losing the war and Albus Dumbledore knew it. He could not hide it from the members of the Order any better than he could shield the eyes of the children he taught. It would not be long before Hogwarts was no longer the safest place to be.

It was only a matter of time now.

He waved a free hand, papers magically shifting around the room and clearing off his desk. He still had a duty to Hogwarts as Headmaster and as such it was still his duty to oversee the growth of his students as they grew and matured into who they would become as adults. There were many futures still in his hands, hands he believed to be capable and fair and just. Though how many would turn astray _because_ of his hands was yet a number he could only hope would be small.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Albus composed himself from his sombre thoughts and called for the student to enter, only slightly surprised that it was young Harry. He had a different look about him, however, and Albus would never forget the boy's words as he offered the Gryffendor a lemon drop the way he always did. Those green eyes, dulled of their fierce shine, regarded him before he spoke. Harry's voice sounded like some recording off of an old record and the words were mechanical in a way that made the Headmaster shudder inwardly.

"...I am a weapon. Use me."

A moment of silence passed between them in which Dumbledore turned the statement over in his mind.

Eventually he regarded his favorite student with something akin to disapproval and stood. "Come, now, my boy... you're obviously troubled. What's this about being a weapon? Please have a seat and we'll talk..."

But Harry remained standing where he was, eyes dull but fixed on the Headmaster's form.

"Use me," he said again, his tone unwavering.

And this time, the Headmaster sighed and did something he would utterly regret for the years to come and those beyond.

"Very well..."

He figured it was a game. Harry was obviously **not** himself, and perhaps it would do to indulge the boy a bit in whatever he was so wrapped up in. He had other matters to attend to that were more important than whatever Harry's current internal issues were. The Headmaster adopted a blank look to mimic Harry's visage. This did not perturb the boy out of whatever game he was playing, so Dumbledore spoke again, realizing that until he gave Harry what he wanted, the boy would remain his office, taking up his time and asking to be 'used', though whatever Harry was referring to completely escaped him.

"How would you like me to use you, Harry?"

"I am a weapon," Harry repeated emptily, his eyes unblinking and focused completely on the older man, "You are in a war. I am your weapon. You have enemies to destroy." He seemed to draw a single breath slower than the others, and Dumbledore felt a strange weight in Harry's words as he spoke them.

"...use me."

Albus Dumbledore then gave Harry the command he'd been waiting for. Unmoving in the same manner that Harry was, he regarded the teen with just a hint of steel as he spoke.

"...destroy Voldemort."

And Harry had turned and left the office, and the Headmaster would suppose that the boy's need for him to indulge in the game he was playing had been satisfied.

He would make a note to speak with Harry at the next available moment, for it was obvious the boy was distressed, but the matter was one of a child and thus could wait 'till morning at least.

He would think nothing of Harry Potter or the implications of his actions and words until late into the next morning, when Minerva and Professor Sprout and even Severus reported to him that he had not been in class, when Hermione and Ron and Ginny and Seamus and Dean and even shy Neville reported that they had not seen Harry since late that prior evening, and by then no one knew where Harry had gone.

--

**END CHAPTER 2.**

**Closing A/N:** I realize Dumbledore is a bit OOC, but isn't Harry as well? Next chapter we visit a glimpse into the past to the point when Harry was found again. Please Review.


	3. Chapter 3

**Story Title: **Weapon

**Story Synopsis: **A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public seems him that way, but because that is what he is.

**Disclaimers:** I don't own any of the characters that will be featured in this Fic. Apologies beforehand for any spelling/grammar mishaps.

**Author:** xxfissshbonesssxx

**A/N:** I've decided to copy off of one of my favorite authors (SheWolfe7) and add in some kind of timeline, so you know a bit about where/when things are going on. And I'm saying it that way because I don't want anyone thinking that I was creative enough to think of doing it myself. vv

**Chapter 3**

--

_"...It was clear that there was no helping them, from what we heard. You-Know-Who had them surrounded and no help was getting in. We were sure it was the end, and... He came like lightning. He wasn't able to save those poor families that You-Know-Who had targeted, but somehow, he did it. He crushed the head of the spider. That's what it was like. If you crush a spider's leg, see, the others will keep going and the spider can scurry away out of your reach._

_Crush the head, and the legs may twitch for a while, but they'll eventually stop. "_

_**--Quote, Anon.**_

_**The Daily Prophet**_

--

**Dover, England, Great Britain**

**Saturday, April 28th, 1996**

**2:42 AM**

When they found him, he was covered in blood.

He was covered in so much blood that it would taint his skin for days to come.

And that wasn't all he was covered in.

Bits and pieces of human remains hung from his clothing, several tiny shreds of what was assumed and later confirmed to be human flesh trailed along after him, stuck by blood to the ends of the frayed Hogwarts robe. There was blood and there was flesh, rotting and burnt. There was vomit, probably his own, and there was dirt and mud and sand and everything.

He was, as described accurately by one of the shocked medics, a bloody mess.

When they first arrived, they initially moved in formations ready to deal with Death Eaters and possibly the greatest threat of all, only to discover that such threats weren't present. Aurors scanned the area but there was only a child in a Hogwarts robe with his dark-rimmed glasses. Except for him, there was nothing and nobody for roughly a three-kilometer circle, all centered about the obviously battle-worn area they found him at.

Sources had informed the Aurors briefly before their arrival that the site was that of one of Voldemort's largest attacks on several groups of families that were half bloods and muggle-born. They asked Harry if the families had been dead when he arrived.

They received no reply.

After questioning him several times and receiving no responses, they deemed him to be in a severe state of shock. One Auror suggested it was because Harry had seen horrible things--or possibly because he'd killed for the first time. The questions stopped after that; they'd all been a bit uneasy after their first kill. They had a while until the medics would show up and so while most of the Aurors went to further investigate the site, two sat with Harry and kept him company, commenting lightly about how killing Voldemort didn't make him any worse for the wear.

"Heck, you'll be more of a hero than you already were!" commented one of the Aurors as he cracked a grin at the Boy-Who-Lived, hoping that this would cheer him up a bit.

"Yeah, that's for sure," agreed his partner.

There was no response from Harry. His gaze was set straight ahead at something that wasn't there, eyes dulled but not unfocused. He breathed in a slow and even pattern, and if his eyes had been shut, the Aurors would've guessed he was asleep. This unresponsiveness eventually got to the two more experienced men and they realized their efforts to get a reaction out of him were in vain.

After half an hour the medics arrived and the two Aurors got up gratefully. One of them moved out to help on the field to look for identifiable remains and the other consulted with one of the mediwizards that approached their Savior.

"How is he, Auror..." the wizard asked tentatively, referring to Harry's blank stare off towards the smoldering horizon. The Auror shook his head.

"Rockwell. Timothy R. Rockwell," he said in way of a brief introduction before frowning deeply. "He's in a state of shock for sure. We haven't been able to get a word out of him and we didn't want to do anything to him before you arrived, just in case..." He gestured toward the boy wordlessly. The mediwizard nodded approvingly and glanced at the boy who was currently surrounded by no less than five mediwitches and wizards, wands drawn and spells mingling in the air as they checked his vitals, blood levels, and scanned for the lingering effects of spells that might've been used on him.

"You did well. If a bit of shock is all he's suffering from, you can be sure we'll have him feeling right proper in--"

There was a commotion from behind them as Harry stood up without warning from where he'd been sitting. All the witches and wizards backed away, wands still drawn, some nervous and others relieved. Those that looked relieved quickly lost the looks and joined their colleges in looking confused and worse yet nervous as the boy began to walk away from them all.

Auror Timothy R. Rockwell jogged over to the boy, barring his path and calling out to him.

"Woah there, Mr. Potter," the Auror said, both hands held up before him to show that he meant no harm and a gentle, almost fatherly expression on his face as he spoke, "Is everything alright?" Harry stopped walking, his path blocked by the body of the larger man, and looked up slightly from the horizon point somewhere not directly looking into the man's eyes.

When the young man didn't respond, but rather kept looking on ahead straight through the man, the Auror adopted a firmer tone and addressed Harry again.

"Listen to me just a minute. We're going to need you to stick around with us for a while, so why don't you turn around and go back to those nice ladies and gentlemen over there?" He gestured behind Harry to the group of white and gray clad medics, some of whom were beginning to put away their wands in hopes that Harry might return if they looked less likely to curse or spell him.

When Harry _still_ didn't respond, but began to step around Rockwell to continue forwards, the man sidestepped and blocked his path again, beginning to lose his patient edge.

"Where do you think you're going?" he half-demanded to know, raising his voice a bit.

For the first time since they'd found him, Harry lifted his head to look the man in the eyes. The teen's newly healed face, formerly dripping with blood and covered in bruises and scrapes, had a eerie blankness on it that didn't belong on a human face. Avada Kedavera green eyes focused entirely on the man's face. Auror Rockwell, an experienced man who'd dealt with everything from aiding in the First War and tracking down potential Death Eaters and even tracking the whereabouts of Voldemort, saw something incredibly wrong in the gaze the young man was giving him. Before he could identify what it was, Harry spoke, and because of the silence that had fallen around them his words were heard by everyone present, even though later they would all recall hearing only the faintest of whispers.

"...I am a good weapon," the boy said, his words even and his tone devoid of any emotion, "And a good weapon always reports to its Master after its job is complete."

--

**END CHAPTER 3.**

**Closing A/N:** Thank you for reading thus far! Next Chapter: Veriteserum and Twenty Questions. Please Review.


	4. Chapter 4

**Story Title: **Weapon

**Story Synopsis: **A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public seems him that way, but because that is what he is.

**Disclaimers:** I don't own any of the characters that will be in this Fic, and any OCs introduced will most likely not be important to the plot. Apologies beforehand for any spelling/grammar mishaps.

**A/N:** o.o; Thank you, reviewer. I feel appreciated. -_bristles slightly_- I'll try to update faster.

**Author:** xxfissshbonesssxx

**Chapter 4**

--

**St. Mungo's, London, England, Great Britain**

**Saturday, April 28th, 1996**

**8:02 AM**

The potion was administered and Snape folded his arms into his cloak, stepping back to let the mediwitches and wizards do their job.

They'd brought in Harry as soon as they could. Dumbledore, of course, had been informed and called in to help with the questioning. Cornelius Fudge was present, as well as three carefully selected reporters, one from the Daily Prophet, another from the National Zephyr, and another from an international paper. Beyond that, the others in the room included Severus Snape, standing as a Potions Master to administer the Veritaserum, Minerva McGonagall, standing as a Mistress of Transfiguration and Transformation, Remus Lupin, to help confirm the boy's identity, and no less than four Aurors. Present were Mad Eye Moody, Nymphroidia Tonks, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Timothy R. Rockwell, the Auror who'd made the call.

All around the Golden Boy figures moved, busy scribbling notations furiously as the Veritaserum worked its way slowly into the boy's system. They wrote for a full minute about the way the boy's head seemed to draw up, his gaze move from the table top to the wall, and how his breathing didn't seem to change at all. With a sneer, Snape announced the potion would be working now and that they were free to ask their questions.

"One at a time, I think," Dumbledore suggested as two Auros moved in at the same time to question the boy, "To make it easier on him."

"Won't matter," Moody responded somewhat gruffly, giving the older man's advice the cold shoulder as he turned to regard the boy seated before him.

"Who are you?" he growled out, his lip curled somewhat in a snarl.

For a moment, there was a pause.

The occupants of the room were shocked into silence as Harry's lips opened...

...and the contents of his stomach dribbled up out of his mouth.

Instantly the mediwizards rushed forwards to magically clean the mess, pushing back the Aurors insistently. They magicked the vomit and drool away from Harry's mouth and clothes, clearing the table top as well. Once all the vomit had been cleared, Harry's vitals checked once and twice and again for safety, the medics called for a ten minute break and then another dose of the truth serum since a spell-scan had showed that all of the Veritaserum had come up with the vomit.

Ten minutes later, Snape sourly admitted another dosage of the precious potion.

Backing away, the room waited to see if the potion would be accepted. They waited a full minute. Another minute.

"I think he's good to go this time," one of the mediwitches said finally, and this time only one Auror approached the table.

Off to the side, Remus was worried. Harry looked... distant. Sure, it could be shock, but there was a certain awareness about the boy that suggested otherwise. His werewolf side was acting up, surprisingly, calling for him to be on guard instead of advising him to be nurturing towards the traumatized boy. That was cause for concern if the werewolf, a creature with a very reliable sense of what to fear and what not to fear, was warning him to be cautious. Either side of his mouth tugged downwards in a definite worried frown as he watched the questioning begin again.

Staring down at the young man, Timothy R. Rockwell mulled over his question and instead of demanding an answer he phrased the same question a different way.

"Hello. Do you remember me? I'm Auror Rockwell. We met earlier. Do you think you could tell me your name?"

The room waited with baited breath.

This time, Harry responded, but it was not an answer.

"I need to use the restroom."

Snape's eye twitched. One of the mediwizards whispered fiercely to his colleague, "Isn't Veritaserum supposed to _force_ its drinker into speaking the truth about the question they're asked?" The man next to him whispered his agreement, sending a glance in the Potion Master's direction. The other occupants of the room were whispering similar things curiously until Dumbledore hushed them all with a gentle 'shh', and indicated to the questioners that they should try again.

The Auror sat down in the chair across from Harry's, adopting a patient look. "Now, listen," he began gently, letting a smile start on his face, "We just need to know some things. It won't take but a few seconds to answer our questions, son, and then, yes, you can go to use the restroom. Could you please tell me your name?"

The room was silent.

For a moment, Snape thought he saw a muscle twitch ever so slightly by his eyebrow, but then the scent filled the room and everyone winced or put a hand to their nose.

The Auror stood up abruptly from the table, unable to curb his frustration.

Harry stared ahead past the Aurors at the wall, blankly.

Again the mediwizards and witches jumped on the boy to clean him up, taking care of his soiled clothes and chair and the mess on the floor. It was just before they parted from him, demanding another ten minute break, that Severus Snape leaned over to Albus Dumbledore and whispered.

"He's not talking."

Dumbledore offered his fellow Professor an inquisitive look and was surprised when Snape shook his head in irritation.

"I mean, he isn't going talk. He didn't have an adverse reaction to the Veritaserum at all when he vomited. It was a deliberate move to get **rid** of the potion."

For a moment, Snape witnessed the expression of undisguised surprise crossing Dumbledore's face. It was fleeting, replaced by worry and confusion. "But how?" he murmured, turning away from Snape to glance at the boy. The Potions Master half-snarled his response.

"Damned if I know, but Potter will _talk_. I'll see to it."

He stormed up to the boy and was stopped half-way by several medics that insisted he wait at least half an hour to administer anything else. Snape snarled his disagreement but was overruled by the entire medical staff present.

The next half-hour was the longest Remus could ever remember waiting. Tonks and Shacklebolt had left on the grounds that they apparently wouldn't be needed and were being summoned to take care of other matters. Fudge had left but returned close to the end of the thirty minute pause. Other than that, the rest of them and Harry remained where they were, medics busting about busily and making sure they had enough of this and that in case such and such happened. Dumbledore asked the medics once or twice if they should continue questioning at all, voicing his concern that it might be stressing the boy beyond his tolerance for trauma. The medics waved off his concerns and informed him that other than his apparent state of shock, the boy in question was in fine physical condition and could therefore be subjected to questioning under Veritaserum.

Standing alone with both arms crossed over his chest and his back against the hospital wall, Remus Lupin couldn't help but think there was something very wrong about Harry. He knew it was Harry and not some impostor by smell, and he found himself grateful to have the heightened senses of a wolf. It was not, however, reassuring to know that this boy was indeed Harry Potter.

Not when the boy's dull emerald eyes stared out into space like that. Not when he refused to respond to anything from soft spoken pleas to leering insults or anything in between.

Finally the medics relented and allowed Snape to come forth. He leveled the unresponsive boy with a scathing look before taking out a small bottle.

"Do you know what this is, Potter?" The boy was silent. Snape kept talking. "Of course you don't. You never paid attention in your sixth-year Potions class. If you had paid attention, you would recognize what's in this bottle." He gave the tiny vial a swirl, its contents dark blue. "This is a complex mixture designed to make you keep down meals. Today, we are going to use it to help you... accept... the Veritaserum," he said with a sneer, "since your system doesn't seem to be _fond_ of it on its own."

He uncorked it and administered the small dose of dark blue potion to the boy. Surprisingly, Harry put up no resistance. Snape backed off and in the silence of the next few minutes the potion settled, and the room waited with baited breath for Snape to administer the truth potion next.

He had to administer it twice, since Harry didn't swallow the first dose on his own and let it dribble down his lips and chin. Snape didn't let the mediwizards push him away as he forcefully poured the remainder of the dose into Harry's mouth and clamped his nose and mouth shut.

At first, Harry simply sat, his dull green eyes looking at the ceiling and unable to breathe. Seconds passed in silence, and suddenly Harry began to titer. His formerly emotionless facial expression began to twitch from passive to pained, and a hint of color appeared on his cheeks. Snape held his hand firm, keeping the boy's head in place. At his sides, Harry's hands began to spasm, his chest rocked somewhat violently as his lungs demanded air and were refused. Seconds passed with an infernal slowness, and suddenly, Harry's hands stopped twitching and his eyes began to mist over.

Snape realized what the boy was doing before Harry slipped out of consciousness and let go.

The potion dribbled out of Harry's mouth as his head was released and allowed to fall back to a regular angle. The boy's cheeks were flush from being unable to breathe and the haze disappeared from his dull emerald eyes as he worked to return his breathing to a normal level.

The irate Potions Master had his wand drawn before anyone could stop him. There were shouts and protests, but over everything Snape barked out the order for Harry to drink the damned potion.

And the boy turned to Snape.

The room fell silent as everyone present realized that Harry was looking at him--not looking _towards_ him, but actually looking _at_ him, focusing on him.

And then he spoke of his own accord.

"...A good weapon does not break... on any account but by the will of its Master."

Snape later confessed under Veritaserum that he hadn't actually cast a spell on Harry to make him speak and that those words were indeed Harry's own. Those words were the last they worked out of him that day, but they left a deep impression on those present. They were the words that prompted Albus to give the confession, the words that eventually led to his arrest and to the headlines in the papers the next day.

_**'END OF YOU-KNOW-WHO! THE DOWNFALL OF THE DARK LORD!'**_

_**'BOY-WHO-LIVED BECOMES BOY-WHO-WON-THE-WAR!'**_

_**'BEWITCHED? WHAT HAPPENED TO THE SAVOIR OF THE LIGHT?'**_

_**'ALBUS DUMBLEDORE ARRESTED!'**_

_**'CONFESSIONS OF A MANIPULATOR: YOU-KNOW-WHO WASN'T THE ONLY ONE WITH PLANS FOR THE BOY-WHO-LIVED!'**_

_**'WILL HE EVER BE THE SAME? MOURNING THE LOSS OF OUR SAVIOR, RUINED BY TWO SETS OF CRUEL HANDS.'**_

--

**END CHAPTER 4.**

**Closing A/N:** Next chapter, we jump ahead in time. The beginning of a mystery appear before Draco Malfoy and the Wizarding World sets it upon his shoulders to solve. Please review and tell me what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

**Story Title: **Weapon

**Story Synopsis: **A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public sees him that way, but because that is what he is.

**Disclaimers:** I don't own any of the characters that will be in this Fic. Apologies beforehand for any spelling/grammar mishaps.

**Author:** xxfissshbonesssxx

**A/N: **There will be LOTS of going back and forth between the present and the past... just to warn you. For some reason, that's how the story dribbled out of my mind. o.O

**Chapter 5**

--

**Diagon Alley, Wizarding Scotland, Great Britain**

**Tuesday, July 22nd, 1997**

**2:42 AM**

A group of British gals, ages thirteen to fifteen, were grouped together walking down the sidewalk of Diagon Alley one cool Wednesday morning. One of the girls in the center of the group was holding up a page of the Daily Prophet, giving it particular attention as she read. Around her, the other girls of the group were gossiping

"I hear he's handsome--"

"Ooooh, haven't you seen his picture, Amora?"

"It's all over the Daily Gazette!"

"Tell me you're joking!"

"Never mind the Gazette--here's his picture right here, in the Prophet!"

"Hand me that--" There was some squealing as one of the girls chased her friend around until she could get hold of the article, "--ooooh, you're right!"

"Isn't he _gorgeous_, though?"

"He's sooooo cute!"

"_Cute_? Hardly! Handsome, more like..."

"Oooooh, but he's a sight for sore eyes, that's for sure!"

"Mmm... Are you sure he's the one who--"

"Aye, that's what the papers say," quipped one of the girls in the group.

"Isn't it strange, though?" asked another one of the girls, "Because of who the papers say he is?"

"Who cares? The fact is he did it... what no one else could do."

The group had grown quieter and the giggling died down. Then, the lass holding the article gave it a wave, attracting the attention of the group.

"He'd **HAVE** to be a hero, with a face like that? He's to die for!"

Laughter broke the strange and uneasy silence that had begun to settle as the group passed an emerald eyed girl on the streets. The whispers and giggles continued and followed her even as she began a brisker step than the easy walking pace she'd been set in before. Dark brows drew together in undisguised anger and the red head stormed a path down the sidewalk, unaware of the people clearing out of her way.

_How dare they_, she thought angrily, _how dare they gwack and gander like they've never seen his face before! _

Ginny Weasely gave an angry huff as she pulled the scarlet shawl around her tighter and stormed down the lane towards the nearest Floo port.

Upon arriving home, she was greeted by the excited clamoring of her twin brothers.

"Gin, Gin, you'll never believe--"

"--what was in the Prophet today!"

"Hm, let me guess," she cut in, lips pursed in imaginary thought, "Oh, I know--Harry!"

The two red heads gasped, each adopting the other's look of overdone astonishment.

"Why, Gin!"

"It's true!"

"Can you be--"

"--have you been hiding--"

"--**Seer** abilities--"

"--from your own brothers?"

They threw their hands over their hearts and made dramatic sweeping gestures.

"Of all the things!"

"To keep secrets from US!"

"Your brothers!"

"Your blood!"

"We--"

"Well, I don't know about '_we_'," Ginny cut in somewhat hotly, "but '_I'_ would like to get some peace and quiet!" She ducked away from the twins even as they began to apologize good-naturedly, darting under their arms and heading for the stairs. She rushed up the stairs without looking back. Throwing herself into her room and casting a locking charm twice, Ginny attacked her pillow with her face and leapt onto the bed.

Two years had gone by. Two long, lonely years since Harry Potter, Boy Wonder, exalted savior of both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds, had defeated the greatest threat to them all.

Two years since Harry had spoken.

Two years since Harry had smiled.

Two years since Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, had done anything but sit lethargically in the hospital bed at St. Mungo's.

Before long, tears began to blot the cover of Ginny's pillow at the memories of a boy she once knew.

"Hey, Gin, open up," a voice called through the door. Its double echoed apologetically, "Yeah, come on, Ginny. We didn't mean to get you riled up."

"We're awfully sorry, Gin."

"Is everything okay?"

Their response was some muffled sniffling. Ginny rolled over in her sheets and pulled her blankets over her head, wanting to miss the old Harry in her own way, without her brothers pestering her. It was not to be, however, as the two older boys easily undid Ginny's locking charms and soon had the door slightly cracked. Three inquiring brown eyes blinked in at her through the crack, one twin looking with one eye and the other having turned his head sideways to look with both eyes. When Ginny rolled over to tell them to sod off, she caught one look at the three-eyed monster in the door and instantly her face screwed up into a failed attempt to muffle a snort of laughter.

Taking its cue, the three-eyed monster opened the door all the way, separating into the two twin jokers that walked in a circle around each other before coming to plop down on either side of their littlest and only sister.

One of them put his hand on Ginny's shoulder, "Well, Gin? Wanna talk?" as the other made a show of splaying himself out on the bed leisurely.

Ginny promptly rapped her brother's exposed stomach with the back of her fist, causing him to curl up suddenly, lose his balance, and fall off the bed. Whoever had fallen yelped before they hit the floor, causing both of the occupants of the bed to laugh at his antics.

Finally, when Ginny had laughed for a while and both of the twins had suffered a bit, one of the red headed boys slipped back onto the bed beside her and smiled broadly.

"The day can't've been so bad if you can still laugh. Wanna tell us what had you so worked up when you came in?"

The girl gave a sigh and fancied her brothers with an apologetic look. "Oh, nothing I should've gotten upset about. Just some girls talking about Harry on the way home..."

The twins' shoulders fell a bit.

"Oh! So you've read already?" they chorused, obviously disappointed. Ginny rose an eyebrow.

"We wanted to be the first to tell you," Fred (or was it George?) started somewhat wistfully.

"We were sure it would cheer you up."

"But, gee, color us surprised--"

"--that reading the latest news--"

"--that Harry actually _talked_--"

"--for the first time--"

"--in, oh, _two years_--"

"--could put you--"

"--in such a foul mood!"

As they'd progressed, Ginny's emerald eyes had grown rounder and rounder until they looked as if they could go no wider. When they finished, neither Weasely boy was prepared for the sheer volume of the shocked statement that rocked the very foundation of the house.

"_**WHAT**_?"

--

**END CHAPTER 5.**

**IMPORTANT Closing A/N:** The reason the girls hadn't seen the face in the paper was--_surprise_--**not** because it was Harry Potter's face. The face in the paper was Draco Malfoy's. Next chapter we'll go visit Harry in St. Mungo's, .


	6. Chapter 6

**Story Title: **Weapon

**Story Synopsis: **A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public sees him that way, but because that is what he is.

**Disclaimers:** I don't own any of the characters that will be in this Fic. Apologies beforehand for any spelling/grammar mishaps.

**Author:** xxfissshbonesssxx

**A/N: **Visiting hours at St. Mungo's begin at 8am? Just making a stab in the dark. Doesn't say specifically anywhere I look. If you find the proper time, tell me, and I'll edit the time. _**PSST**_... It makes me feel better if you review.

**Chapter 6**

--

**St. Mungo's, Scotland, Great Britain**

**Wednesday, July 23rd, 1997**

**7:55 AM**

When Hermione arrived, Ron and Ginny were already there. She greeted them briskly and somewhat breathlessly. Ron took her scarf from her as she unwrapped herself from a rather thick cloak.

"I was visiting Mum and Dad when I read the paper," she said as Ron also took the heavy cloak from her, "I came as fast as I could."

Ginny nodded, smiling shyly. "It's good to see you again," she said, "we haven't seen you since you were here with us last time."

Hermione extended a smile to the younger girl and nodded. "Yeah... how long ago was it? Three months?"

"Three and a half," Ron agreed, his voice somewhat hoarse. "It was Malfoy. Of all the bloody people to make him talk, 'Mione. It had to be Malfoy."

The brown-haired girl didn't know how to respond to that.

At her brother's side, Ginny looked a little sad, too.

Why?

Why had Harry spoken to _him_ when he hadn't said a single word to anyone else?

"Come on," Ginny whispered, breaking their somber silence and turning in the direction of the wards, "Visiting hours start in three minutes." The older two turned to follow her wordlessly, each deep in his and her own thoughts.

The nurse at the reception desk greeted them all fondly, having memorized their names as those among the most frequent visitors to the ward. She apologized as she asked for their wands like she did every time. They told her it was alright, just like every time they came, and that they had no problem following the rules. The nurse offered to bring them some drinks while they waited but they refused politely and chatted with her for the few minutes left. When the clock's long hands finally itched up to read 8:00 the nurse called a mediwitch to lead them to the room.

Ron, Hermione, and Ginny followed the bubbly woman in silence down the twists and turns that they'd come to know from their visits. The nurse leading them was speaking animatedly and excitedly about Harry, never once noticing that the visitors weren't exactly tuned in. They walked behind her silently for quite some time until her incessant babbling actually turned into describing where they were headed, at which point Hermione and the two Weasely offspring tuned back in.

"...'ere we are. Fourth floor, room 4017. Mr. H Potter. Y'won't be needin' me 'ere, will yew? Wonderful bloke, 'e is, wot, savin' the world an' all that, but 'is stare is right unnatural. Gives me the shakes, it do... Ehm? No? Then I'll be off, dearies, and enjoy your stay!" She pointed them to the right door and walked off briskly.

No one touched the door for a minute.

"...are you sure..." Ginny began, not looking at the two she was addressing but instead staring at the silver door handle.

Hermione didn't reply except to reach out and twist the handle and push the door open gently.

On the other side was the familiar and painful sight of a boy sitting upright in a small bed, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him.

Ginny walked in first. The room was the same as it always was; small and square and white with one window that faced the East so that sunlight would fill the room at dawn. It had a white tile floor and was undecorated. Beside Harry's bed on the nightstand were several bouquets, two of which were beginning to wilt and one that was about to look unbearable.

Hermione hurried in next right over to the flowers and picked up the vase of dying flowers and disposed of them properly while Ginny addressed the two that were beginning to wilt, clipping several of the dead blossoms with a pair of scissors that seemed to live on the nightstand for that purpose.

Ron came in last and walked past both girls and the flowers to stand on the other side of the bed, looking at what had become of his best mate.

Harry stared past him like always at the same unseeable point.

"Hey, mate. Harry."

No response. Like always.

"You're in the papers again, mate. Well, not that you're ever NOT in the papers... I don't know how you stand all the celebrity."

The dull green eyes blinked monotonously.

"Anyway, they're saying you talked. They're saying you talked to Malfoy."

He paused, waiting for some kind of response.

"Malfoy, Harry. MALFOY."

To his right, Ginny and Hermione put the vases down and turned to watch Harry and Ron. Though it was more like watching Harry and listening to Ron.

"I mean, you don't have to pretend we don't know. It was all over the papers yesterday and today, and they'll probably be talking about it for weeks now." Ron stopped to run a hand through his orange locks. They had been getting long and so Molly had given them a trim; now his bangs hung just low enough to cloak his gaze if he hung his head the right way. He pushed back the locks from his face so he could see Harry more distinctly. "What I don't understand is why you talked to him when you wouldn't--when you _don't_--talk to anyone else."

His tone was bitter and blatantly jealous.

"Malfoy, mate... stinking, lying, cheating, bloody **Malfoy**."

Another pause.

"So why?"

"Ron..."

"Why him? Why not me? Or Hermione? Or Ginny, damnit? Why _him_?"

"Ron," Hermione said again, stepping closer. Ron kept speaking as if she hadn't said anything.

"Bloody Malfoy, Harry! Why? Why not Moody, or McGonagall? Why bloody Malfoy? He doesn't give a damn about you, mate, he just wants to be in the papers! We care about you, you know that! So _why_--"

"Ron, calm down," Ginny said, stepping past Hermione and putting a hand on her brother's arm. Ron's lips twitched, more angry questions right behind his lips, but at Ginny's request he swallowed them and paused to control his breathing. Hermione watched worriedly as Ron's chest heaved but it eventually slowed as the anger left. At his side, Ginny could see the anger abating. She kept her hand on her brother's arm.

A few moments later, Ron licked his lips and spoke again. This time, his tone was apologetic and his voice was just a bit hoarse again.

"Sorry 'bout that, mate. I really am. It's just... it got to me. That you talked to Malfoy, I mean, instead of us." Ginny gave his arm a little squeeze. "...but it's okay. It doesn't matter if you talk to me or Malfoy or the Queen of England--I'm really glad that you're not a vegetable."

Silence.

"Because that's what it means, right?" Ron pressed, strength returning slowly to his voice, "I mean, vegetables don't talk. When they brought you in, they said you were in a state of shock, and they said--they said it could go on forever, but it's not going to, now, is it? You're gonna come back to us, right, mate?"

The only signs of life from the otherwise motionless boy was the steady rising and falling of his chest as he breathed, and the monotonous blinking of his dull green eyes.

"Harry?"

Up and down.

"Harry, mate? Can't you hear me?"

Breathing gently, because it was just breathing.

"...Harry?"

In slow, out again. In and out.

One of the girls choked on a sob and turned away. Ron never sobbed. He didn't move as the tear welled up over the rim of his lids and cascaded slowly down either side of his freckled face.

Sometime later, one of them mentioned leaving. It might've been Hermione, it might've been Ginny. Eventually, someone did leave, promising to return in a day or two or tomorrow, if Harry would like that better. Sometime later, someone else left, too, murmuring something about having to get back home and things to do and promising to be back tomorrow bright and early. And sometime later, when there were two trails of dried tears down either side of a freckled face, Ron put a hand on Harry's hand gently. He murmured some words about friendship and trust, about loyalty and love, about never turning his back on his best mate. He might've said something about always being there, or he might've muttered a promise to return tomorrow with the two girls. His fingers squeezed the unresponsive hand ever-so-slightly, and water welled up in those already red eyes again, and Ron let go quickly after that to swipe at his face and turn away.

And Harry Potter sat, eyes set on something yet unseen beyond the gray hospital wall, breathing and blinking, and not doing much of anything else.

--

**END CHAPTER 6.**

**A/N:** Next chapter: Backing up a bit to find out just what happened to make Harry talk. I'm sure you're all smart cookies, and that you'll pick it up fast. Or rather, you'll get the main gist. I think?... -headdesk- In any case, thanks for reading, and please review.


	7. Chapter 7

**Story Title: **Weapon

**Story Synopsis: **A story in which Harry Potter is a weapon, not because the public sees him that way, but because that is what he is.

**Disclaimers:** I don't own any of the characters that will be in this Fic. Apologies beforehand for any spelling/grammar mishaps. _**ALSO**_. _I do not like this chapter_, but I feel it's relevant to the storyline. Thus, here it is.

**Author:** xxfissshbonesssxx

**Chapter 7**

--

**St. Mundgo's, Scotland, Great Britain**

**Monday, July 21st, 1997**

**9:22 PM**

Draco frowned. Of course, he was always frowning when he came here.

Just like Potter was always staring straight ahead, looking through the wall at nothing.

He let a heavy sigh go before rubbing his head. "One more try, Draco," he prompted himself, getting off the chair and standing up again.

Draco Malfoy had been in room 4017 on the fourth floor ward since nearly eleven that same day. He'd come in with the same attitude, and he was sure that he would be leaving with the same results as always. None. '_I'm telling father that this is my absolutely last try,'_ he thought firmly as he brushed back a stray lock of platinum blonde from his pale face,_ 'I've been coming here for weeks and nothing's come of it... my social life is suffering, and Potter's none the better.'_

He sighed and faced the Boy-Who-Lived.

Potter greeted him with the usual blank gaze, blinking intermittently, and not really looking at Draco at all.

"Well, despite the fact that I spent the last hour being nice to you and trying to get you to talk to me, I'm going to ask you the same question just a few more times, Potter," he quipped perkily, not bothering to hide his enthusiasm that this might in fact be his last visit, "and then I'm gone for good. Merlin knows both you and I could stand to be in other company." He paused to wait for a reaction--a twitch of the hand, a change in breathing or blinking pattern--before he carried on with his usual one-sided conversation. "It's been a real _treat_, having to come and visit you, oh, three times a month. I'll bet even your precious Weasel hasn't come to see you so often!"

He leered at the eerily stoic face.

"No? Do tell. How often do they come again? Oh, you don't have to say, I know from reading the sign-in charts. They stopped coming months ago. It's funny, isn't it? That they were the first to come and the first to go? I remember time when it seemed like the whole Weasel family looked like they were going to start living here, and then one day... poof! No more poor red-heads to visit you. And no more mudbloods, either. All of a sudden, they all stopped coming to see their Golden Boy--though I suppose with your condition you're more like copper or bronze. They stopped coming, see? They're not coming to visit you any more, Golden Boy. They gave up on you." He snorted and stopped walking, following Harry's gaze to the wall and losing a bit of his smirk.

"...some friends, huh?" he said, though it lacked the mocking tone he'd wanted to throw behind it.

Harry didn't reply. He looked at the wall, his thoughts, if he was thinking any, unreadable. Draco felt a twitch develop at the corner of his mouth. He'd exhausted all his patience with the unresponsive boy.

_'If he so much as _looks_ in my direction,'_ Draco decided, _'I'll call it quits and say I've done my part to get a reaction out of him. Father can't make me stay on after that.'_

"So... enough about you."

He slid back into the chair that sat on the end of Harry's bed and leveled himself with the teen's empty stare. It was unnerving to do so, but he'd been doing it now for several months, and when he connected their gazes, it seemed to change something about the boy in a way that made Draco think he actually had his attention. Dear Merlin, he'd been coming here too much. '_I'm going to hex Father once I'm out of here,_' he thought, before pushing on for what might hopefully be the last time he would come here.

"Listen up, Potter. I'm sick of coming here. Sick of 'making good' and trying like everyone else to pull you out of your bloody stupor. I don't know what malady has befallen my father to make him think that somehow_** I**_ could get you to talk, but as soon as I leave today I'm going to have him thrown in here with you." Knowing that would get no response out of the boy, Draco didn't even bother to pause. "So why don't you at least look at me and give me something to work with? Merlin knows I've already tried lying. You know there's a bloody monitering charm on your room twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week? They caught me, and ever since, Father's been making me come here. Well, I'm sick of it."

He leaned over the edge of the bed. "Why don't you just get on with talking and tell me how you did it, Potter?"

No reaction.

"Tell me how you defeated the Dark Lord," Draco drawled, adopting a smirk, "Did you _Avada Kedavera_ him on sight? Or did you use _Crucio_ and watch as his disfigured face contorted even further? Tell me, what did 'pain' look like as it twisted into 'death' on his face?"

Nothing.

"Or did you use magic at all?"

Draco pulled himself back, his grin broadening even though he could feel irritation beginning to build at the unresponsive teen.

"Did you somehow beat them all up using a muggle technique? Maybe a ritual, or some kind of summoning? Tell me... what did you do?"

Silence.

"Tell me."

More silence.

"Or give me some kind of REACTION, Potter--a nod of the head, a blink of the eye--something to tell them to get them off my back."

It was getting to him. A twitch developed in a muscle near his eye.

"Tell me."

No, it had _gotten_ to him by now.

"_Tell_ _me_, Potter."

And the Savior of the Wizarding World twice over did nothing.

"_**Tell me**_ _**how you did it, Potter**_," Draco growled out finally, standing abruptly and knocking the chair back towards the wall behind him, "Tell me how you killed the damn Dark Lord!" To hell with being 'careful' with their precious hero! Didn't they see he was damaged goods? It didn't matter what he'd done, because now... now he was this.

A shell. A shell of a boy that wasn't giving him any damn answers.

Harry had stared straight ahead as he always had, unmoving except for the steady movement that suggested breathing. Then, quite suddenly, his lips fell open and if Draco hadn't been listening so intently for a reply he would've missed the words that fell out like a raspy old recording.

"...took it from him... _crushed_... over his face... _without it_... and fulfilled the mission objective."

Startled by the response, Draco launched rapidly into more words.

"Potter? Potter, Potter you--uh, Harry--Harry! Stay with me, Harry, c'mon--talk to me! What happened that night? Tell me how you did it! What did you do..."

His voice hiked up in volume, in excitement at getting even so little a reply, but already he could see that the boy's features turning stoic again, uncaring and unmoving. Frustrated but determined, Draco kept talking deep into the night, wondering what in the world he'd done differently than any of the others to get the boy to talk. He kept digging, not noticing as the time dragged on, trying everything he could to coax another answer out of the unresponsive boy.

When eleven rolled around he turned abruptly from the room and slammed the door behind him. He reported his findings to the receptionist who eagerly wrote down every word he muttered ill-manneredly. She was gone before he finished but the end of the meeting was unimportant--that Draco had elicited a reply of any kind from the unresponsive shell of a boy was sure to be headline news the very next morning. Draco groaned to the echo of the pudgy woman's high heels clicking madly as she waddled off, calling the name of a reporter or two that had been sitting, waiting in the lobby like vultures for any news.

Shortly after they began to converse, Draco found himself wincing at the shriek of glee that erupted from the two reporters and pinched his temples to prevent the mounting migrane from growing any further, realizing that after three hours of Potter and his silence, that one little uttering was going to get him into at least another hour of an interview.

The blonde regretted going in the damned dark room at all.

--

**END CHAPTER 7**

**A/N:** Sorry this seems to be a slow update. / : Next chapter is Harry's Birthday, wherein many friends stop by, having read about his having talked to Malfoy. Some are happy, some are upset, some don't know what to expect. What I'd like to know is what YOU expect as a reader out of this story. (: Reviews are helpful.


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